Page 67 of The Unraveling

I hesitate and look up at the window. I see a face vanish and a curtain close.

What the fuck is her problem?

I get in the car, really hoping she doesn’t go spreading this around to everyone. She locks me out, forcing me to get back in the car with my donor, then tells everyone I’m fucking him or something. I can see it. It’s not my first time dealing with a psycho ballet bitch.

He tells the driver where to go, and then, after a nod, the driver closes the partition between the front and back again.

“It’s all right,” says Alistair. “This is why you should stay at my spare flat. You need a place of your own. You can’t be depending on someone you can’t trust.”

“Can I trust you?” I ask.

Our eyes lock, and I feel an electric current go between our gaze. Like if I don’t break it, he might see into the deepest corners of my mind.

I avert my eyes, blushing.

“Of course you can,” he says. “You can ask me for anything you need. You can tell me to stop. You can tell me you want more. Anything. I’m here to make your life easier. Not harder. Even if you are making things harder for me.”

It’s clear what he means. He means he wants me, too.

A deep relief washes through me.

I’ve never been taken care of. I’ve never been protected. No one has ever said they wanted to make my life easier. And to know that he’s tempted by me, too—it makes me feel less crazy. I’m not making up this chemistry. It’s there.

I take a deep breath.

“Jocelyn.”

He says nothing more, so I nod quietly, my heart pounding. “Okay.”

He looks out the window. We pull up to a building with a salmon awning that says, in an old deco font, IVORY TOWERS.

“We’re here.”

I feel overwhelmingly happy suddenly. I have a gorgeous place to live. I have a wonderful job dancing again. Even if Alistair changes his mind in a few months about the flat, this will give me more time to decide what to do about Mimi. I still need to figure that out, but at least I can start saving everything.

The driver opens the door for me and I get out, Alistair ready to lead me into the building.

“Mr.Cavendish,” says the doorman, opening the glass door.

“Tobi, good to see you.”

I wonder if Alistair has come through here with other women. It’s probably the classic story of the wealthy guy with the secret apartment he uses for scandalous rendezvous.

“I’m surprised he remembers me,” he says. “I’m never here.”

It’s like he read my mind.

We get in the gold-clad elevator, and he pushes the button for PH. Penthouse. I look up at the mirrored ceiling and then catch eyes with Alistair again.

We laugh and look away, like nervous teenagers.

There is a crystalline ding and the doors open.

“Oh my god, are you serious?” I say, immediately.

The place has soaring ceilings and massive windows, not unlike the studio at RNB. It smells like fresh linen and roses. There is a huge white sofa that looks like it’s never been touched. There are shelves filled with Taschen books and expensive, delicate-looking ceramics.

“This place just sits here?” I ask.

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